Time is Calling My Name

I'm reading about 'Marmion', whic was mentioned in 'Jane Eyre'.

A few moments ago I read up on the 1874 Amendments on the Poor Law.

I did badly for C1 and C2 Maths. Damn sad.

Grandma was admitted to hospital due to breathing difficulties. Daddy was muttering to himself nervously about the possibility of her getting pneumonia. He said she's so old and fragile now it's difficult to recuperate.

He's implying the 'unspoken'.

We never spoke of grandma's death. And I can understand why.

Daddy is a cheerful and jovial person. His composure was calm even at a friend's funeral, then he came home and joked as usual. I wouldn't say this is disrespectful, he's just the sort of person who understands the way life works.

Yet when it comes to Grandma, he is solemn.

The way he put it, it was as if he expected her to live forever and never die. Or perhaps he wished it would be later, not now. Die another day, huh?

Her condition is no secret to our big family: bed-ridden, aged 90+, Alzheimer (she could barely remember us, often mixing us up).

Daddy's the only one who often visits her. Sometimes he tells us, sometimes he just goes without telling anyone. They share a world we could never, and would never enter.

It's not like I don't want to see her. I'm afraid of seeing her.

Seeing her lying on the bed, all the while gasping for breath as if breathing is a task. Her dry skin clinging on to her frail skeleton of a body, time left scars that will never heal on every cell. Long white hair spread on her pillow like white silk. Those grey irises squinting at everyone as if we're aliens, all of us except her only son.

I haven't seen her for almost a month.